


Mating Games Entries

by Piscaria



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-01-06 23:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 16
Words: 10,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1112936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of ficlets I wrote for Mating Games 2013 and 2014.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Week 3: Kink Grab Bag (Erica/Isaac/Derek) - 2013

**Author's Note:**

> So I was doing that end of the year meme, and realized I'd never actually posted all of the ficlets I wrote for Mating Games this spring. Oops?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erica discovers the downside of the werewolf makeover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Week Three: Kink Grab Bag**  
>  **Warnings:** Underage. Possible dub-con.  
>  **Kink/Trope(s) Used:** Fingerbanging, hair removal, voyeurism.  
>  **Pairing:** Erica/Isaac/Derek

By the time Erica reached up to the station, mascara-stained tears were rolling down her cheeks. 

“Derek!” she wailed, but he was already bounding out of the train car, Isaac a cautious shadow behind him. 

“What happened?” Derek asked,. 

Erica shook her head, still crying. _It’s okay,_ she assured the part of her that was still a nervous virgin. _They’re Pack._ In one move, she stripped it over her head, her breasts bouncing with the motion. She hadn’t bothered putting on a bra.

For a second, they both just stared at her bare breasts and stomach. Isaac licked his lips. Derek’s eyes swept over her skin like he was searching for hidden wounds. Erica felt the sniffles start again.

“I have a pelt!” 

Isaac frowned, leaning in to see the fine, blonde hair on her breasts and stomach. “Huh. I guess you do.”

“We’re wolves,” Derek said with a shrug. “It used to happen to Laura.” 

“ _You_ don’t have a pelt.”

Derek actually smiled, reaching for her hand. “Come here,” he said. Erica let him lead her into the train, her top still crumpled in one hand and Isaac trailing behind them.

* * *

The wax burned when Derek dripped it onto her stomach, and Erica squirmed. Since becoming a werewolf, her relationship with pain had changed. It didn’t hurt, exactly, but it still sent a low tingle running through her spine. In the doorway behind him, Isaac adjusted his pants. Their eyes met, and Isaac swallowed, glancing towards the door in silent question. Erica hesitated, then shook her head. 

Derek’s hand slid low on her hip, stretching the skin taut. He ripped the muslin off, and Erica cried out. But the hot drip of wax was already starting again, and her skin tingled as the slight burn healed.

By the time Derek cupped her breast in one hand, she was a squirming mess. He cradled it, one thumb skirting over her nipple. She shuddered.

“You like that.”

She nodded, biting her lip.

Derek glanced over her shoulder, jerking his chin at Isaac. “A little help?” 

Erica’s breath caught in her throat. Part of her thought about protesting, but Derek’s thumb was rubbing her nipples, and Erica mentally growled at it to shut up. When Isaac slid in behind her, his erection pressed against her ass. His smaller hands replaced Derek’s, kneading her breast.

The trickle of hot wax on her breast was exquisite. When Derek ripped offthe strip, she actually groaned, grinding back against Isaac. Derek glanced up through his lashes, then pressed his open mouth to the reddened patch of fragile skin. At the same time, one of Isaac’s hands squirmed around to the waistband of her sweatpants. 

She caught his hand, dragging it beneath the elastic. He found her clitoris through her damp panties, and she gasped, low and broken. The hot burn of wax dripped over her other breast, and she whimpered, head falling back against Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac’s fingers slid inside the elastic leg band, touching her where she was damp and aching. She giggled in nervous, breathless joy as his hand curled and he drove two fingers into her. 

“Fuck!” 

She ground down into the touch, trembling as he found that place inside her that she always aimed for when she touched herself late at night. His fingers rubbed over her g-spot, again and again, and she closed her eyes, shuddering, feeling weightless and electric. Then Derek ripped the muslin, and she screamed, arching her back as she clenched around Isaac’s hand.

When she came back to herself, Isaac’s fingers were still working her, and his erection was rubbing against her ass in little, desperate circles. Erica pushed her hair away from her hot face, still trembling, and met Derek’s eyes as he threw the used muslin strip behind him. He smiled again, low and private, and reached for her sweats, drawing them down over her hips, exposing Isaac’s hand curled over her dripping pussy.

She heard the bashful, virgin part of her say, “I don’t want either of you to fuck me.” She had someone else in mind for that, and a new wave of wetness spilled over Isaac’s fingers as she thought about Boyd’s body arching over hers. 

“That’s okay,” Derek said, and bent to lick her juices from Isaac’s straining fingers. “We can still think of plenty to do. Isn’t that right, Isaac?”

“Yeah,” Isaac groaned, as he slid another finger into her. 

Erica laughed shakily, and opened to them.

**The End.**


	2. Challenge 4: The Ties that Bind (Derek/Stiles) - 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles abuses their mating bond and Derek gets his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: Derek/Stiles  
> Warnings: Possibly dub-connish abuse of a mating bond.

It started as a warmth pooling low in Derek’s stomach, so subtle, at first, that he didn’t notice until the Nissan idling behind his Camaro honked, and Derek realized he’d been standing beside the gas pump for fifteen minutes, hand curled around the nozzle, while his mind lingered on Stiles’s long hands, the soft, fuzzy happy trail leading down his soft stomach and into the waistband of his boxers. 

Shaking himself, Derek unscrewed the Camaro’s gas cap. He hit the premium button, lifted the nozzle, and spasmed, as the mating bond linking him to Stiles blew wide open. Long, calloused fingers wrapped around his cock – no, not his, no foreskin, this was all Stiles, the damp, ruddy head peeking out from the circle of his fingers, jeans and boxers shoved low on his thighs. 

_Derek,_ Stiles groaned inside his mind, arcing his back against the cold, porclain – toilet, Derek realized, Stiles was actually jacking off in the boys’ bathroom. The nozzle clattered to the ground.

 _You little shit,_ Derek thought, steadying himself against the car while the Nissan’s horn blared. Derek lifted his head, and the Nissan’s driver quailed at his expression. The mating bond bubbled with mirth that grew sweeter, thicker as Derek focused on it. On one level, he was braced against the Camaro’s trunk, erection straining against his jeans, and on another, he stroked himself frantically in the men’s room, calling up memories of his cock sliding down Stiles’s throat, of Stiles’s tight heat around his fingers, the sharp, sweet pain of Derek’s knot as it swelled inside him.

Involuntarily, Derek’s hands curled into fists, lengthening nails biting into his palms. _I’m going to kill you,_ he thought, and Stiles laughed, gasped as he spilled hot and wet over his fingers.

 _Looking forward to it,_ Stiles sent back, blithely, fondly, like Derek’s anger was adorable, like he was a fucking puppy, not an Alpha werewolf. The bond faded to a quiet hum in the back of his mind, and Derek snapped back into his own body, painfully hard, ears and neck hot.

* * *

Derek’s Henley fell to Stiles’s carpet. A second later, his jeans followed, then his briefs. The bond vibrated faintly, a sign that, unconsciously, Stiles’s mind had cued into what was going on. Still, if Derek traced the link between them, he could find most of Stiles’s attention focused on the textbook in front of him, the highlighter cap between his teeth. 

When Derek caught sight of his reflection in the mirror on Stiles’s bedroom door, his eyes gleamed red, predatory. He settled himself on Stiles’s bed. The crumpled sheets still smelled like sex from this morning, and Derek luxuriated in the scent, stretching out to let it sink into his skin. He drifted a hand down his stomach, and the bond between them sputtered to life, Stiles’s mental voice foggy and confused.

_Derek?_

_Hmm?_ Derek rolled onto his side, opening the nightstand drawer. He pulled out the bottle of lube, and Stiles’s breath caught hard enough that Derek felt it in his own throat.

Once or twice, Stiles’s fingers had brushed, teasingly, over the crack, before Derek growled and caught his wrists. Truthfully, Derek didn’t know why he’d resisted it so long, except it felt too much like losing control, and he had so little left when it came to Stiles. But when Derek flattened his feet on the mattress and pressed a finger inside, it felt like nothing but control. The highlighter cap dropped from Stiles’s slackening mouth. Derek squirmed, pressing deeper, focusing on the lust flickering through the bond. Shamelessly, he imagined these were Stiles’s long, wicked fingers, working him open. His thighs spread wider and Derek groaned, rocking back against his own hand. 

_What the fuck?_ Stiles thought, all panic and desperation.

 _Want you_ Derek sent back. _Want your fingers. Your cock. Oh Stiles, fuck!_ He worked another finger inside, gritting his teeth when Stiles’s pulse jumped. 

By the time door slammed open, Derek was up to four fingers, his brow beading with sweat. Stiles stumbled inside, all glazed eyes and tented jeans.

“You . . . school,” Derek managed, fingers still knuckle deep in himself.

“I walked out of physics,” Stiles gasped. “Harris gave me detention for a month. Fuck, come here!”

Derek lost it when Stiles grasped the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Or maybe he won. Derek didn’t know anymore. But either way, he was definitely playing for keeps.

**The End**


	3. Week 5: The Picture Challenge (Derek/Stiles)-2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles thinks he's under a curse, but at least he's not the only one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pairings: Derek/Stiles  
> Warnings: Descriptions of gender dysphoria and transphobia.

“What’s wrong, Gizheurann?” Mom asked when she found you sobbing beneath the apple tree, your face redder than the ripening fruit. The name made you cry harder. 

Her eyes pleaded with you. Since you’d started school last year, she’d grown wan. Every morning, you tried to stay home. Crying. Faking stomach aches. Refusing to get out of bed. It didn’t work. They took you to doctors, but you weren’t sick. You were _wrong_. Nobody could fix that. 

Sometimes you wonder if she wore her heart out worrying for you. If you’d been normal, would it still be beating? 

Mom pulled you into her lap, and the secrets fell from your lips, crashing and breaking against the tear-stained fabric of her blouse. The boys wouldn’t play with you at recess. They laughed when you wanted to be Batman. The girls thought you were weird. All the girls were supposed to wear skirts to the concert next week, but you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t! You’d rather die. 

When you lifted your head, she was crying too. Somehow, that helped. You’d been afraid she might say you were silly, there was nothing wrong. Maybe her tears gave you the courage to ask, in a small voice, “Was I cursed?” 

She you charms to keep away the monsters under the bed, to bring good luck. You both knew curses were serious. She looked up at the sky, at the apples overhead. 

“Zaichik,” she said at last, “I think maybe you were.” 

Next week, Dad drives you to a different school. Your new teacher introduces you as Stiles. You smile, run a hand through your freshly-buzzed hair. You sit next to a boy named Scott. 

Scott lets you be Batman, at least until he gets the superpowers, which is ironic, since Batman has none. But Scott is cursed, too, so you’ll cut him some slack. 

* * * 

You’ve claimed a debilitating fear of water since puberty, so instead of splashing in the pool with your friends, you’re trudging through the woods after Derek, who doesn’t scare you anymore, but still pisses you off. You’d give anything to be able to whip your shirt off like him. Your binder is sweaty and itchy. 

You’re reduced to daydreaming about those blissfully cool (if terrifying) hours keeping Derek afloat when he suddenly stops. You follow his gaze to where Peter lays in the bushes, eyes glassy, throat a mess of red. 

Derek digs the grave, but you spread the wolfsbane. An X this time, not a spiral. Derek can’t exactly seek revenge on the Alpha Pack when he killed Peter himself once. Afterwards, you brush the dirt from your hands, while Derek stands over the grave. 

“Sometimes I think I’m cursed,” he says. 

“I hear you,” you say, with feeling, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before you think better of it. 

His eyes go wide. You tense, until something raw and broken flickers in them. Suddenly, you’re sucking on his lower lip, and he’s gripping your hips. Then he reaches for the hem of your t-shirt, and reality crashes hard. 

“There’s something you need to know,” you stammer. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “I already know.” 

You suppose it’s not that surprising. Derek creeps around in your room. He has super senses. But . . . 

“You don’t think it’s weird?” 

“I’m a fucking werewolf,” Derek answers. And . . . fair point. 

* * * 

You can’t meet Derek’s eyes when you strip off the binder. You toe off your boxers, toss your packer into the underwear drawer. Then he’s catching your chin, tilting your face up, and his body is solid and warm against your naked skin. When he kisses you, it’s electric. 

You’d feared sex with Derek will be like something from the Discovery Channel. As hot as that seems in theory, you’re nobody’s bitch. But he’s hesitant, almost skittish. By now, you know it’s not because of you. It turns out you’re not the only one with secrets. 

“Tell me what you want,” he rumbles, nipping at your throat. You’re too shy to speak, but you drag his head down. You’ve always been sensitive there, and it’s gotten better since you’ve started T. His stubble feels _amazing_ on your dick. 

And maybe your life is a horror novel, not a fairy tale. A kiss can’t break either of your curses. But when you lick into his mouth and taste yourself, it feels like a blessing all the same. 

**The End**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A longer version of this was posted as [A Blessing and a Curse](http://archiveofourown.org/works/821804). Also check out the [amazing podfic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/884697) by Mothlights.


	4. Bonus Challenge 3: Sports Night [gen, Erica] - 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Erica tries out for lacrosse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gen. 
> 
> No warnings or content notes.

Everybody stares as Erica strides past the bleachers full of girls to the edge of the lacrosse field, where the boys are jostling each other, high on nervous energy. But Erica’s been stared at all her life, and she knows she’s just as gorgeous in gym shorts and sneakers as she is in a miniskirt and heels. She just puts a little more swing into her step as she cuts through the gaping crowd of lacrosse hopefuls to slide onto the bench beside Stiles. Scott, Boyd, Isaac, and Jackson all gape at her. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” Finstock yells. “Spectators stay in the stands.”

“I’m not a spectator, coach,” she says, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I’m here to try out.” 

Finstock boggles. Behind him, Greenburg makes a face like he sucked on a urinal cake.

“You?” he snorts. 

Erica smiles sweetly. “You think I don’t know what to do with a stick?” she asks, trailing her fingers suggestively up the line of Stiles’s, which is propped haphazardly between his spread thighs, net hanging half-tied. He’s gone bright red, mouth hanging open like he’s choking. Erica wonders if this is the first time anyone’s had a hand between his legs. You should have tapped me when you had a chance, Stilinski, she thinks, and turned to blow a kiss to Derek, who was fuming where he stood against the tree line. 

Finstock’s eyebrows shoot up to his hairline, and he whistles under his breath. “Well,” he says. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”

Beaming, Erica trots onto the field with the rest of her pack.


	5. Bonus Challenge 4: Movie Night (Derek/Stiles, pre-slash) - 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles sees an unexpected face at the movies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be read as gen or pre-slash.
> 
> No warnings or content notes.

Scott and Isaac refuse to pay theater prices for the same movie twice, so when Stiles goes to Iron Man 3 the second time, he's on his own. He feels a little like a loner taking a seat in the back with his popcorn, his Mountain Dew, and the box of Red Vines he smuggled inside his jacket, but whatever. For at least two hours, Stiles is safe from the werewolf drama that has been plaguing his life. At least, that's what he thinks until he glances up from his phone, and sees Derek Hale standing in the aisle, glaring up at the advertisements that always roll before the trailers.

Stiles's breath catches in his throat, and his heart rate ratchets up a notch. Stiles isn't afraid of Derek anymore, not really -- if nothing else, Derek owes Stiles for keeping his paralyzed ass from drowning. But where Derek goes, trouble follows. Instinctively, Stiles glances around the darkened rows of seats, looking for hunters, werewolves, hell, maybe another kanima. Then he notices the bucket of popcorn in Derek's arms.

He looks from the popcorn to Derek's face, and realizes Derek is watching him. For a second, they just kind of stare at each other, awkwardly. They're not friends, but after everything that's happened, Stiles thinks they might, possibly, be allies. He lifts a hand in a stupid-looking wave. Derek acknowledges him with a short nod. Stiles bites his lip, because Derek, like Stiles, has obviously come here alone. And damn-it, it doesn't matter how much he tries to convince himself otherwise -- Stiles hates sitting by himself.

Awkwardly, he gestures at the empty seat next to him, lifting one shoulder in a questioning shrug. Derek's jaw clenches. But to Stiles's surprise, Derek stalks into his row and sits beside him. He spreads his legs wide when he sits, sneaker brushing Stiles's, and Stiles swallows, shifts away. 

"It's a good movie," he says, as Derek takes a sip of his soda.

Derek nods, staring up at the screen like the plastic surgeon's ad playing is the most fascinating thing on earth. "I know," he says.

Stiles gapes at him. "You've already seen it?" 

Derek nods, and Stiles grins. He wants to press for more, wants to ask when Derek saw it the first time, if he went alone, or with someone else, whether he thinks the next Thor movie might be just as good. But then the previews are starting, and Derek shoots him a look that suggests he'll rip Stiles's head off if he even thinks about opening his mouth.

Like him, Derek sits through the credits. Stiles is planning to ask if he wants to grab fro yo afterwards, but when he looks up, Derek is gone.

Still, when Stiles texts Derek later, months later, asking if he wants to go see _Thor 2_ with him, the response is instantaneous.

_Sure._


	6. Bonus Challenge 5: Road Trip (Stiles/Derek pre-slash) - 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sheriff Stilinski gets the wrong idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can be read as gen or pre-slash.
> 
> No warnings or content notes.

Stiles chewed at his thumbnail as he sat in the passenger seat of his dad’s car, watching the front door to Derek’s building. He would give anything for werewolf hearing right now. His dad had refused to let Stiles come in with him, just like he’d refused to listen to any of Stiles’s explanations. Stiles hadn’t even been able to fire a warning text off to Derek – his dad had confiscated his phone, along with his car keys, his iPod, his PS3, and his entire life until he turned 18.

It’s not that he thought Derek would hurt his dad, or that his dad might shoot Derek. It’s just . . . they were talking about Stiles in there! Then again, maybe it was better Dad had made him wait in the car. Stiles wasn’t sure he wanted to see either of their expressions when Derek finally got his dad to understand that Stiles was the last person a hot, rich 23-year-old would ever want to date.

The door opened, and Stiles pricked to attention, jaw dropping as Derek stepped carrying a duffel bag, his dad’s hand gripping his shoulder in a way that didn’t look even a little bit friendly. Of all the possibilities Stiles had imagined when Dad first announced this crazy, misguided attempt at father-son bonding, Derek going along with it had never even crossed his mind.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered, low enough his dad couldn't hear, though Derek certainly could. “If you want, we can tell him the truth.”

Derek glared at Stiles, but didn’t answer. Not that he could, with Stiles’s dad standing right beside him. Instead, he crossed to the back of the car, tossed his duffel bag into the hatchback.

Stiles’s dad rapped sharply on the passenger window. “Backseat!” he ordered. “Mr. Hale is going to sit up front. The two of us need to get to know each other better.”

“Why are you torturing us?” Stiles asked, as he climbed out of the car to stand beside Derek. He risked a glance at Derek’s face, but that didn’t help him. Derek wore the same pissed off expression he did about 90% of the time. There was a distinct possibility Derek’s face had just gotten stuck that way.

His dad crossed his arms over his chest. “Son,” he said, “if I really wanted to torture you, I’d have your boyfriend in handcuffs right now, or telling him exactly how painful his death would be if I caught him anywhere within 100 feet of you.”

“He’s not –“ Stiles started.

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache. Could werewolves even get headaches?

“Stiles,” Derek said. “He caught us. There’s no point in pretending.” 

As subtly as possible, Stiles curled the fingers of his free hand into claws, raising a quizzical eyebrow at Derek. 

“He knows we’re seeing each other,” Derek said, sounding like the words hurt a little. Stiles didn’t blame him. God, Derek must hate him now! 

“Just to make things perfectly clear,” Stiles’s dad said. “I don’t approve. Not even a little bit.” He jabbed a finger at Stiles. “You’re in high school, and everything about you” he glared at Derek, “spells trouble.” Then he sighed, shaking his head. “But as wrong as this situation is, God help me, it’s obvious that you two care about each other.” 

Derek glared at Stiles, but the tips of his ears were turning red. More than anything, Stiles wanted to know what he’d told his dad.

“And son,” his dad continued, “I care about you. So the two of you are going to get in this car, and we are going to drive out to the old cabin, and I am going to get to know this new person you’ve turned into, and why Derek here is so important to you that you would risk going behind my back with him. Because Stiles, you are my son, and I am always, always going to be part of your life, no matter how many stupid decisions you make. Is that clear?” 

“Crystal,” Stiles said, biting his lip. 

Derek’s pissed off expression had disappeared. Instead he looked almost wistful.

Stiles’s dad nodded firmly, and clapped a hand down on each of their shoulders. “Good,” he said. “Now get in the car. We have a long drive ahead of us.”


	7. Week 6: Hungry Like the Wolf (Derek/Stiles) - 2013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek goes feral after hunters shoot him with a poisoned arrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Warnings/Content notes** : Dub-con (made-them-do-it) and feral!Derek

> He holds him from desire, all but stops his breathing lest  
>  Primordial Motherhood forsake his limbs, the child no longer rest,  
>  Drinking joy as it were milk upon his breast.
> 
> Through light-obliterating garden foliage what magic drum?  
>  Down limb and breast or down that glimmering belly move his smooth and sinewy tongue  
>  What from the forest came? What beast has licked its young?
> 
> \- W.B. Yeats, from “Supernatural Songs”  
> 

The forest was dark and oppressive, save for the bright circle of tree and underbrush illuminated by Stiles’s flashlight.

“Derek?” 

Stiles had seen Derek’s iron control melt in the wake of the poison tipping the hunter’s arrow, leaving him wild-eyed and snarling. Derek’s panicked eyes had met Stiles’s for a bare second before he’d fled into the woods.

Fuck that.

The hunters wanted Derek out of control, wanted him to hurt somebody. Wanted an excuse to take him down. No way would Stiles let that happen. Even though he didn’t know how to find Derek. Or what he’d do when he found him.

Gripping his flashlight like a weapon, Stiles ventured deeper into the woods, scanning the dense trees for red eyes, a flash of bare skin, any hint of Derek’s presence. But the flashlight fell only over tangled branch and root.

“Derek?” he called again.

“Stiles.”

The growl lifted the hair on the back of his neck, so low and animalistic that it grated against his very bones. His heartbeat drummed inside his chest. Stiles’s fingers slackened around the flashlight, and it tumbled into the underbrush. It landed at an angle, shining into Stiles’s eyes. He blinked, bringing his arm up to shield his face. At the same moment, something plowed into him from the side, and he fell to the mossy forest floor, gasping for breath. Derek leaned over him, all red eyes and snarl.

“Dude,” Stiles gasped. “Are you okay?”

Derek didn’t look okay. He was still (mostly) in Beta form, but the sideburns bristling down his cheeks were thicker than Stiles had ever seen them, and the glow of his red eyes was unnerving. He bent low to sniff at Stiles’s neck, and stubble brushed against the sensitive skin of Stiles’s throat. The shock of it made Stiles jump, but Derek’s hand landed in the center of his chest, pinning him still. Derek’s mouth fell open against Stiles’s throat, fangs brushing sensitive skin.

Stiles froze. “Derek?” 

A long tongue flicked out, tasting Stiles’s neck. 

“Hey!’ Stiles protested. “I’m not for snacking! I’m – oh fuck!” The bright flash of claws was all the warning Stiles got before Derek ripped a line down the center f his t-shirt, peeling it away. A frigid blast of night air hit his skin before Derek dragged his face down Stiles’s chest, nuzzling at the skin of his belly. Stiles groaned despite himself.

“Dude!’ he protested weakly

Derek made a low sound in his throat, nuzzling Stiles’s crotch before his mouth closed over his tented jeans. Stiles could feel the heat of it even through the wet denim. More than anything, he wanted to buck up into the hot pressure of Derek’s mouth, to unfasten his zipper and _feel_ the wet heat surrounding him. But . . .

“No,” Stiles gritted out, clenching his fingers in Derek’s hair, like he had a chance in hell of dragging him away. “You don’t want this. “

Derek shook his head, resting his head against Stiles’s bare stomach. “Want,” he countered. “Always want. Stiles . . .” His fingers scrabbled against the waistband of Stiles’s pants, claws barely grazing the skin there. He tugged at Stiles’s waistband, brow furrowing in a way that might have been adorable, if it weren’t for the fangs, the red eyes, the sideburns.

“Fuck,” Stiles whispered. He reached for the fly of his jeans, and no sooner had them open, then Derek’s mouth closed over Stiles’s erection 

In retrospect, Stiles probably should have been embarrassed that he came so quickly, but it was hard to give a fuck, when Derek was lapping up his come like it was ambrosia, nuzzling into the curve of Stiles’s hip and kissing over the sensitive skin of his balls until he reached the hidden, secret place behind them. Stiles could only sob out in joy as Derek’s tongue breached him, heartbeat drumming madly in his chest. 

The world collapsed to the twigs digging into his knees, to Derek’s tongue, slicking the way inside him, to Derek’s claws on his hips, dragging him closer, to the hot press of Derek’s stomach against his back. When Derek finally mounted him, claiming Stiles with the long, hard length of his cock, Stiles could only groan and buck up into it.

* * *

The hunters glared when they stumbled upon them the next morning, where they’d curled into the bed of clover. Stiles smiled sleepily, nuzzling into Dereks’ chest.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I owe you one.”


	8. Week 2: Bonus Challenge, Sleepovers (Stiles/Derek) - 2014

When Stiles padded downstairs, his dad was already sitting at the table, dressed in his uniform and reading the newspaper. Stiles bit his lip, then stepped into the kitchen, trying hard not to look like he was harboring a werewolf in his bed. 

“Morning, Dad,” he said, crossing to the cupboard. 

“Good morning,” his dad said, lifting the coffee cup in greeting. Stiles looked at it, then frowned. Did Derek drink coffee? Stiles couldn’t stand it, himself, unless it was shot full of chocolate syrup and covered with whipped cream, but coffee seemed like the type of thing Derek would drink. 

He started to reach for cereal, realized he’d need two bowls, and snagged the bread instead. Toast. Toast was good. He set two slices in the toaster, then drummed his hands on the counter. As casually as possible, he slid a mug from the shelf and reached for the coffee pot.

“Are you drinking coffee?” 

The stream of black liquid splashed across the counter as Stiles jumped. Grabbing a paper towel, he mopped it up, keeping his head ducked so his dad couldn’t see his guilty expression. 

“Uh, yeah,” he said. “I thought, you know, why not try something new?” At his dad’s disbelieving stare, Stiles managed a smile, lifting the cup in a salute before risking a tiny sip. The dark, bitter taste made him grimace, but he forced his mouth into a grin. His dad’s eyebrows were practically up to his hairline. 

The toaster dinged, and Stiles dove for the opportunity to turn away. He threw open the fridge, gathering out butter and jam. Halfway through slathering up the second slice, it occurred to him that Derek might not like raspberry jam. Oh well. Derek could deal. It's not like raspberry jam was worse than the bullets Kate had fired into him the night before.

Lifting the plate of toast in one hand and the mug of coffee in the other, Stiles said, “See you, Dad!” and bolted back upstairs. 

Derek was still in bed where he’d left him, all naked torso and sleep-rumbled hair. It looked like the bullet wounds had all healed during the night. He stirred as Stiles shut the door behind him, rubbing his face into the cotton pillow, as though trying to drag his scent over it. He made a low, questioning sound in his throat, rubbing at his eyes, and all at once, Stiles felt a warm wash of affection rise up in his chest. 

“Morning,” he said, setting the plate and the cup on the edge of the nightstand, as Derek stretched, sitting up against the headboard. “I hope you like coffee.”


	9. Week 1: Happily Ever After (Stiles/Derek/Lydia/Allison/Scott) - 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lydia uses banshee magic to fix the Nemeton.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Temporary (canonical) character death  
>  **Pairing:** Stiles/Derek/Lydia/Allison/Scott

“Women in our family have three weapons,” Lydia’s mother said, taking Lydia’s tiny hands in hers and clucking at her torn fingernails and bloody knuckles. “Fists aren’t one of them.”

“But--!”

Her mother shushed her. “If you fight, fight to win. Use your mind, not your fists. Your mind is your first weapon.” She nodded at their reflections in the mirror. “Your second is beauty.”

Lydia winced at her black eye and dirt-streaked face.

“Nothing a bath and some concealer won’t fix,” her mother said.

“Make-up?” Lydia breathed. Her mother nodded. Lydia snuggled into her side. “What’s the third weapon?”

Her mother smiled mysteriously. “You’ll find out when you’re older.”

~*~

Scott and Isaac balanced mirrors from the trees, beaming moonlight into Allison's open grave. Lydia squeezed Stiles's hand. Isaac's lips moved in a silent prayer. Hope and despair warred on Scott’s face.

Nothing happened.

"Why isn't it working?" Lydia cried. "It worked with Peter!"

"Peter was a werewolf," a woman said, her face obscured by the hood of a purple cloak. The werewolves growled. Stiles drew Lydia behind him.

She lowered the hood.

“You're a _Ban Sidhe_ ,” her mother said. “To resurrect a human, you’ll need your third weapon-"

"My voice!"

Her mother smiled proudly. Together, they called to Allison.

~*~

It should have been a happy ending, but still the Nemeton shrieked for restitution. Roots and branches papered the walls of Lydia's bedroom. She borrowed books from Deaton, Chris, Derek, even Peter. She dreamt in Latin.

One morning, Lydia opened a lipstick tube. Two hours later, she blinked at a ritual scrawled across the mirror in MAC Flamingo.

They gathered at the Nemeton that evening. Lydia and Allison. Stiles and Scott. Derek. Five points on a pentacle. Five fingers on a hand. Five for wholeness.

When Lydia outlined the plan, Derek scowled. “No.”

Scott shot a questioning glance at Allison, who smiled. “I trust Lydia.”

“Well I don’t!” Derek turned, but Stiles caught his elbow.

“Trust _me_ ,” he said. “This will work.”

Derek stared into Stiles’s eyes, still hollow from the Nogitsune. He nodded.

Allison’s mouth tasted like the Reeses cups they’d shared in the car. She squeezed Lydia’s hand, and dimpled at Scott before kissing him, too, sweet and familiar. Laughing, Scott and Stiles shared a wet, smacking kiss.

Still grinning, Stiles turned to Derek, who caught him by the shirt and hauled him in. Stiles flailed, then his hands found Derek’s shoulders. Derek hugged him tight, almost lifting him off his feet. They leaned forehead to forehead, dazed.

Lydia tapped Derek’s shoulder. When he turned, she stepped onto her tiptoes, kissed him chastely. Winking at him, she pulled off her sundress.

Stiles tripped attempting to remove his jeans and get to Lydia without letting go of Derek’s hand.

“Can I eat you out?” He glanced apologetically at Derek. “It doesn’t mean– I don’t, not anymore, but I’ve always wanted–”

“It’s _fine_.”

“I’ll ride your face, while Derek goes down on you,” Lydia suggested. “Okay?”

Derek was already unbuttoning his jeans.

Stiles sprawled bonelessly on the Nemeton. Kneeling over him, Lydia lowered herself until his nose brushed her cunt. He surged up, gripping her hips, dragging his whole face through her cunt before going to work.

Lydia sighed happily.

Stiles froze, groaning, before diving back in with renewed enthusiasm. Lydia glanced back in time to see Derek swallowing Stiles’s cock. Derek blushed, but kept working his way down Stiles’s length. Lydia touched Derek’s cheek, carded fingers through his hair. Then warm hands cupped her breasts, drawing her attention.

Allison gave her a devilish smile, small breasts bouncing as Scott fucked her from behind. Bowing her head, Allison latched onto a nipple, mouth hot and perfect.

“Hot!” Scott groaned, leaning forward. He kissed like she remembered, fierce and determined. He nipped her lower lip and Lydia whimpered, grinding down on Stiles’s face. Heat rose in her belly. She gripped Scott’s shoulder, other hand tangling into Allison’s silky hair.

Stiles shoved at her hips. Lydia lifted up to give him air. But two surprisingly thick fingers drove inside her, right before his mouth closed over her clit again. Panting, she glanced back in time to see Derek’s hand wedged between her body and Stiles’s face, his other hand pumping frantically between his legs.

Cool air engulfed her wet nipple as Allison pulled off, shuddering in ecstasy. Scott cupped Lydia’s cheek, licking into her mouth just as Derek’s fingers crooked hard.

Lydia threw back her head.

And screamed.


	10. Week 2: The Beast Within (Stiles/Derek) - 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles finds Derek a drugged naked in a cage.
> 
> Pairing: Derek/Stiles  
> Warnings: dub-con, implied drugged sex, scenting, rimming

The moonlight seeping through the narrow windows cast the basement into shadow. It took Stiles a second to find Derek, crouched in the corner of an iron cage, wolfed out. He was naked, Stiles realized. And hard. So hard. Stiles swallowed, licked his lips, tried hard to look anywhere but at the angry, red curve of Derek's cock.

"Whoah!" said Stiles. "Um, hello to you, too." He swallowed, darting a quick glance back to the cage. Only the cage. Not the naked werewolf inside it. Nervously, Stiles stepped closer. Derek's eyes tracked his every movement, predatory.

Even a beta could rip through iron like butter, but Derek was making no move to free himself. He crouched low in the corner of the cage, pre-come leaking steadily onto his abs. Blushing hot, Stiles tore his gaze to the floor. That's how he noticed the thin line of mountain ash surrounding the perimeter of the cage.

Stiles's common sense was screaming at him to run, get Scott, let him deal with this. But Stiles had never been on particularly good terms with his common sense.

"Okay," he said. "I'll let you out, and you're going to remember that you don't actually hate me. Sound like a plan?"

"Don't," Derek grated, sounding like he hadn't spoken in weeks. He swallowed, tried again, wolfed-out face looking so sincere. "Don't hate you."

"Whatever Kate gave you, it must be the good stuff," Stiles said, and scuffed his toe through the ash.

The sound of bending metal echoed through the basement. Then Derek was shoving his face into Stiles's neck, the stubble scraping the sensitive skin. He inhaled, lips brushing over the pulse point, soft and surprisingly gentle. Stiles's dick gave an interested twitch in his pants.

"Derek?" Stiles ventured, touching his naked shoulder. He was trying so, so hard to ignore the hard dick bumping up against his denim-clad hip.

Derek shuddered against him, nosing into the skin behind Stiles's ear. "Stiles," he groaned. His hands were on Stiles's waist, rough and insistent. A second later, Stiles's knees hit the floor, hard. Clawed fingers caught in his jeans, shredding the denim over his ass and the backs of his thighs.

"Derek!" Stiles yelped. "What are you--?"

Strong hands gripped Stiles's ass cheeks, spreading them apart. Stiles flinched, bracing himself. He squeaked when Derek's hot breath gusted over his hole, followed by the fever-hot slide of a tongue.

Stiles leaned his forehead against the cool, concrete floor, panting. Derek was going to town on his ass like it was a fucking delicacy, making rough, hungry little noises as he worked his tongue deeper and deeper into inside, gripping Stiles's hips so he couldn't squirm away. Every flick of tongue and drag of stubble over sensitive skin went straight to Stiles's dick. He gasped and panted, acutely aware of how vulnerable he was here, ass open and dripping. Despite himself, he found himself bucking back into Derek's mouth, spreading his legs even wider.

Dimly, through his own startled whimpers and Derek's throaty grunts, Stiles heard the familiar slap of flesh on flesh behind him. He strained his neck to glance over his shoulder, saw Derek's clawed hand working over his own cock.

"Holy shit!" Stiles gasped, and fumbled for the fly of his jeans, still, ridiculously, intact, for all that Derek had his ass laid out like a five-course meal. He'd barely gotten his hand around his cock before he was coming, hard, shuddering and groaning between Derek's tongue and his own, impatient fist.

Derek made a startled sound against his ass, then flipped Stiles over, staring down at his spent, come-slicked dick with a hungry gaze. His hand sped up, stripping his cock with brutal efficiency until the long ropes of his own come were mingling with Stiles's. Derek dragged his face through the mess, licking his way up Stiles's torso. He finally settled, mouth open on Stiles's collarbone, not biting, just resting his fangs against Stiles's skin.

"What the fuck was that?" Stiles gasped, reaching blindly to pet at Derek's face. He combed his fingers through the ridiculous sideburns. Derek turned, nuzzling into the touch, then froze.

He tapped the tip of his claw against each of Stiles's fingers in turn. One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

"You're real," Derek choked. Horror and self-loathing filled his eyes. He stumbled away from Stiles, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry."

Stiles stared at his own hand in bemusement, then shrugged, reaching for Derek's shoulder. "I'm not," he said.


	11. Week 3: Non-Penatration (Cora/Lydia) - 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Cora shares her brother's gift for breaking and entering.
> 
>  **Warnings:** sex toys  
>  **Pairing:** Cora/Lydia

“If you’re going to break into my house, at least try not to _look_ like a creature of the night!” Lydia says, running a brush through Cora's tangled hair. 

“I _am_ a creature of the night,” Cora points out. “So are you.” But she submits to the soothing rhythm of the brush, to Lydia’s fingers braiding her hair, more at peace than she's been since leaving Argentina. 

“You need earrings,” Lydia declares. “The ones in my nightstand will work. Find them while I get my make-up bag.”

Cora doesn’t care about earrings or make-up, but she rolls across the bed and opens the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Instead of earrings, she finds condoms, trial-sized packets of lube, and a white plastic wand capped by a soft, round head. A cord runs from the bottom of the wand and out the back of the nightstand. Lydia emerges from the bathroom just as Cora lifts the wand. 

“Wrong drawer!” Lydia says, embarrassment spiking off her, though her expression is carefully neutral.

“Is this a vibrator?” 

"Well, obviously!” 

Cora bristles. It’s not that she’s a stranger to vibrators, exactly. Her last girlfriend had a vibrating dildo. But the foam-rubber tip of the wand is bigger than her fist. 

“How do you . . . ?" Cora forms a circle with her hand, crudely pumping two fingers through it.

Rolling her eyes, Lydia drops onto the bed beside Cora, taking the vibrator and flipping on the switch. The hum fills the quiet room. 

“Put it on your nose,” Lydia suggests. “It sounds weird, but you can feel how strong it is.”

Cora does. She can’t help the tiny, startled noise she makes. The vibration _is_ intense, but from this close, there’s no way to ignore the honey-sweet scent of sex and Lydia permeating the porous tip. Before she can think better of it, she’s flicking her tongue out against the vibrator, chasing the salty-sweet taste beneath the chemical plastic. 

Lydia’s gaze turns sharp, calculating. A trickle of cinnamon-hot arousal drifts off her. “It feels amazing against your clit,” she says. Her voice is lower. Throaty. 

Cora licks her lips. “Show me.” 

The air between them feels charged now, potent with possibility. Lydia is wearing a dress. When she spreads her legs, Cora sees the dampening crotch of her panties. 

Pressing the wand between her thighs, Lydia sighs in pleasure. Cora finds herself staring at the hard peaks of Lydia’s nipples beneath her thin dress. 

"Why don't you take your panties off?" 

"It's too intense!” Lydia gasps. “I need the cloth as a –oh! – barrier!” 

She clearly has this down to a science, is already trembling beneath the wand’s steady hum. Perspiration darkens her hairline. The air is hot, thick with sex. Cora’s mouth waters. She wants to bury her head between Lydia’s legs, taste the juices squelching beneath the vibrating head.

Her hand closes over Lydia’s on the handle. "Let me," she says. Lydia hands the wand over, pulling her dress up over her head and unfastening her bra. 

It’s heady how the slightest movement of the wand can reduce Lydia to incoherent tremors. She’s spread out before Cora, all creamy skin, heaving breasts, and sweat-slick curls, riding orgasm after orgasm in breathy, gasping waves. Cora wants to taste every inch of her, slide her fingers into the soaking panties to feel how hot and slick she is. 

“You’re so fucking gorgeous,” Cora growls, switching the vibrator to her left hand to unbutton her jeans. Kicking free of them, Cora drags her t-shirt over her head. Wearing only her sports bra and cotton panties, she straddles Lydia, grinding down so that the vibrator is trapped between them, sparking pleasure against her clit.

“Yes!” Lydia sobs. “Fuck yes!” Surging up, she mouths at Cora’s nipple through her sports bra, hands tearing through Cora's hair, ruining the braid. Leaving the vibrator to buzz between them, Cora draws Lydia into a desperate kiss. They fall back to the mattress, kissing frantically, while the hot wings of pleasure beat faster and faster, surging up through Cora’s body until she thinks she might black out. 

Afterwards, she can’t stop touching Lydia, nuzzling between her breasts to breathe in her scent, combing through her soaking pubic hair to feel the hot, engorged skin of her vulva. Lydia sighs dreamily, snuggling closer.

"I changed my mind," she murmurs into Cora's shoulder. "Break in whenever you want." 

Cora smooths down her sex-tangled hair, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This entry won second place in its voting group for Challenge 3. Thanks to everybody who voted! ♥


	12. Bonus Challenge 3: D&D quotes (Stiles/Derek) - 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek has a secret.
> 
> Based on [this](http://outofcontextdnd.tumblr.com/post/82530582762/druid-dont-forget-that-i-have-3-aspects-of) out-of-context D&D quote.

It started when Stiles dropped by the loft one day to find the floor covered with cardboard boxes, Derek sitting in the midst of them. 

"Are you moving?" he asked, unsure why the idea gave him such a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't like Derek had never left before. 

But Derek shook his head, neatly slicing through packing tape with his claws to reveal a stack of . . . holy shit, were those history textbooks? "I brought the rest of my stuff home with me from New York," he said, setting the box aside and reaching for another one. "I haven't had a chance to go through it yet." _What with you getting possessed by an evil fox spirit_ , he didn't say.

Stiles ducked his head so Derek couldn't see his expression. His dad kept saying that Stiles wasn't responsible for all of the shit that had gone down with the Nogitsune. Someday, Stiles might even believe it. "I can help," he offered, desperately needing a distraction. Derek shrugged, and shoved the box he'd just opened over to Stiles, reaching for another in its place. 

Curiously, Stiles lifted the cardboard flaps, wondering about Derek's life in New York. The box looked like it was packed in a hurry. A jumble of pens and highlighters, a Moleskine notebook with a grocery list on the front page, a framed photo of Derek and Laura hastily wrapped in a Columbia sweatshirt, and a small, suede bag drawn shut with a leather thong.

"What's this?" Stiles asked, reaching for the bag.

"Hmm?" Derek asked, shuffling through a stack of DVDs. He glanced up, and his eyes widened when he saw what Stiles was holding. "No!" he said, reaching for Stiles. "Don't!" 

But Stiles was already opening the bag. He wasn't sure what he'd expected to find -- some kind of mystical, werewolf bullshit, maybe, or perhaps the finger bones of Derek's enemies. The last thing he was expecting to see was an assortment of dice in gleaming jewel tones. 

"Holy shit!" Stiles crowed, pulling his phone out to snap a picture because no way was Scott going to believe this. " _You_ play D &D!?" 

"Laura did!" Derek protested, snatching the bag away from Stiles. He tried to shove the box away, too, but not before Stiles managed to snag the character sheet, neatly filled out in Derek's surprisingly loopy handwriting. 

"You were a _druid_?" Stiles choked, bursting into startled laughter when he saw the drawing on the back -- a bearded man in a robe with a gray wolf beside him. "Not, like, a half-orc or a burly fighter? You were a fucking druid?"

"I had three aspects of death inside me!" Derek snapped back. Then he seemed to realize what he'd just said. The tips of his ears turned red. "Um . . . "

Stiles grinned, patting him on the shoulder. "That's okay," he offered. "I'm a gnome warlock with an attitude and some serious sass."


	13. Bonus Challenge 5: Recipes (Stiles/Derek) - 2014

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Stiles isn't allowed to stay on his own after the whole Nemeton thing.
> 
>  **Warnings** Humiliation and hot fudge.  
>  **Pairing:** Derek/Stiles

Stiles called it baby-sitting. His dad called it not taking unnecessary risks. Either way, it meant that Stiles wasn't allowed to spend the night by himself. Usually Stiles camped out at Scott's house during his dad's rare overnight shifts, but tonight, Scott had a date with Kira.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" he'd asked Stiles during calculus that morning, brown eyes equally full of worry and hope. 

"S'cool," Stiles had said, trying not to hurt his best friend's feelings by letting on how much he was dying for a night of his own, sweet company. Little Stiles deserved better than discreet jerking in the shower every morning. Little Stiles deserved to be fucking romanced. Stiles had it all planned out. His favorite porn on the computer. A bottle of lube. Maybe even the dildo he kept in a shoebox in the closet, far from his dad's prying eyes. Hell, he'd even treat himself to dinner. 

* * * 

Stiles was happily pouring hot fudge onto his banana split when the kitchen door swung open. "Do I smell chocolate?" Derek asked, stepping into the kitchen with a book tucked under one arm and a hopeful expression in his eyes. Hope quickly faded to shock as he caught a good look at Stiles.

"Oh my God!" Stiles yelped, flailing to cover himself. The ice cream bowl went flying, the hot fudge spoon managing to hit Derek squarely in the chest. 

"What the hell, Stiles?" Derek yelled, turning his glare on Stiles before blushing and looking quickly away. "Why are you naked?" 

"Why are you _here_?" Stiles wailed, grabbing a dishtowel. He started to hand it to Derek, changed his mind, and used it to shield Little Stiles instead. 

"Scott called me!" Derek said, stripping out of his t-shirt in a quick, angry movement. He crossed to the sink and turned the water on cold, letting the fabric soak. Stiles swallowed, transfixed by Derek's naked back. Derek turned back to look at him, nostrils flared and eyebrows raised practically to heaven. They both glanced down to where Little Stiles was making his appreciation known. 

Derek turned the sink off, turning around to face Stiles, hands braced on the counter behind him. He didn't look murderous, exactly. He looked . . . intrigued?

Gathering his courage, Stiles stepped into Derek's space, rubbing his thumb along the line of Derek's clavicle. "You've got a little . . ." 

In response, Derek caught the back of Stiles's head, drawing him in. Stiles's eyes fluttered shut as he opened his mouth, licking the smear of chocolate off Derek's salty skin. He chased the sweetness with his tongue, couldn't resist biting down a little at the end. He pulled back, unable to tear his gaze away from the newly-reddened patch of Derek's skin. 

"Was . . . um . . . was that okay?" 

Without taking his eyes from Stiles, Derek reached for the mess of spilled ice cream on the counter beside him. He scooped up a handful of half-melted rocky road and smeared it down his chest, a smudge of marshmallow fluff landing tantalizingly close to one nipple, pebbling from the cold. Stiles leaned in again, his mouth already watering. The dishtowel fell to the floor. 

**Little Stiles's Recipe for a Perfect Night**  


* One Dad out of the house  

* One Derek (shirtless acceptable, naked preferred)  

* One jar of hot fudge


	14. Challenge 5: Canon Divergence - Cora/Boyd/Erica, everybody survives the bank vault

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kinks: Exhibitionism and voyeurism 
> 
> In which everybody survives the bank vault.

Cora hugs herself on the cold cement floor, trying to fall asleep. She envies Erica and Boyd, curled together on the opposite wall. They’re fidgeting, too, clothes rustling in the quiet cell. Then Cora smells arousal, hears the drag of a zipper.

"She'll hear!" Boyd whispers.

"So?” Erica says. “I don’t want to die a virgin. Do you?”

He doesn’t respond aloud. But Cora hears Erica’s quiet gasp, the wet, rhythmic slap of flesh on flesh. The sex smell ripens in the air.

“You guys are disgusting,” Cora grumbles, trying to dull her senses to human levels.

“Jealous?” Erica asks.

Cora snorts, turning her back to them. She doesn’t want to die a virgin, either.

***

Every morning, the Alphas toss food through the mountain ash circle, never enough. Boyd divides it evenly. They work out to keep their strength up. They talk. Cora tells them about the brother who skipped high school to come to her third-grade play with a dozen roses.

Erica and Boyd look at each other.

“I don’t think you’ll find that guy in Beacon Hills,” Boyd says gently.

Cora glares at the wall, throat tight. They’ve already told her about their Derek. The first day in the vault, Cora had pummeled Erica to the ground for the names she’d called him, before Boyd shoved in between them. She thinks about the pack she left behind in Argentina at the first rumor that Derek was alive. Do they miss Cora, or will they have forgotten about her already? She wonders if the brother she’s going to find is worth the hunger gnawing at her belly, the buzz of concentrated moonlight in her veins. She wonders if she’ll live to find him at all.

Every night, Erica and Boyd move together, while Cora glares at the floor. She hates them a little for having each other. She hates the scent of her own arousal as she listens to their quiet gasps and slick, wet sounds, smells the satisfaction rolling off them.

"You get off on this,” Erica groans one night.

Cora opens her eyes to see her riding Boyd, tits bouncing, head thrown back in apparent ecstasy.

"On you two fucking like animals?"

“On watching us.” Erica smiles, cruel. "You smell like you get off on it. I bet you want to touch yourself."

"I can't help it if you two-" Cora starts.

Boyd interrupts. "Do it!”

"What?"

"Touch yourself,” he groans, arcing up into Erica. “You want to, right?"

Cora swallows. "Yeah."

"Then do it."

Erica’s unsure expression gives Cora the courage to unbutton her jeans. She reaches beneath the elastic waistband of her panties, circling her clit with one finger, hard and fast, the way she likes.

"I can't see," Boyd protests.

Emboldened, Cora kicks the jeans and panties free, so she's sitting in front of them wearing only her shirt. She spreads her legs, dragging her fingers through her wet cunt. The heat of Boyd’s gaze pushes her farther than she normally goes, and she shoves two fingers deep inside of herself, shudders more from his groan of appreciation than the penetration.

"Fuck, that's hot," he says, pulling Erica down hard. She grunts, eyes fluttering shut.

They finish that way, Boyd and Erica together, Cora alone.

***

“I wonder what will happen on the lunar eclipse,” Erica says, head lolling back against Boyd’s shoulder.

Cora snorts. “Nothing.”

“What do you mean?” Boyd asks, leaning forward.

“We lose our powers,” Cora says. “We’re nothing during an eclipse.”

“You mean we’re human,” Boyd says.

Cora rolls her eyes. “Same thing.”

“Born wolves!” Erica huffs, though her voice is tired, barely spiteful. Malnutrition is getting to all of them. “You and Derek think you know so much.”

“There’s a lot I don’t know,” Cora admits, too tired to fight.

“Like what?” Boyd asks.

She twists her ponytail, glaring at the floor. “I don’t know what I’ll say to Derek, if I see him again.” She hesitates, adds, “I don’t know if I’ll die before losing my virginity.”

Erica smiles at her, and it’s a real smile, not a catty one. She takes Boyd’s hand, twines their fingers together. "What do you say we give Little Miss Voyeur a lesson in fucking?"

Boyd is already reaching out for Cora. She stands on shaky legs and goes to them.


	15. Challenge 4: Light/Darkness - Derek/Stiles, Derek/Kate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Notes: emotional hurt/comfort. Obligatory Kate Argent warning.

**Then.**

The woman cut through the crowd of teenaged girls surrounding Derek like sunlight through a cloud. Heat unfurled in Derek’s stomach at the predatory sway of her hips, the pheromones crackling in the air around her.

“Hi, handsome,” she said, elbowing a cheerleader aside so she could touch Derek’s sweaty bicep. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, “Isn't putting a werewolf on a high school basketball team like bringing a flamethrower to a water gun fight?"

He sputtered, throwing a terrified glance at the crowd around him.

She laughed. "Don't worry, sweetie. None of these pretty young things has any idea what I’m talking about!" Winking, she handed him a business card. Kate Argent, it said. Sales and Distribution. "Call me when you get tired of playing these kids' games."

They went driving in Kate’s Mustang with the top rolled down, her hair gleaming in the sun. She squeezed Derek’s knee when she changed gears, and his heart tripped with excitement. That afternoon, she rode him in the backseat until Derek’s whole world exploded into blinding light.

**Now.**

Stiles shows up at the loft after midnight. Derek’s only bothered to turn his bedside lamp on, and Stiles is all pale skin and bright eyes in the darkness.

"Heard I got you arrested again,” Stiles says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry."

"That wasn't you.”

Stiles glances away, fingers tugging the seams of his jeans. Watching him fidget, Derek realizes how still the Nogitsune had been in Stiles’s body.

Derek steps closer, crowds Stiles back against the wall, like he had when Stiles was just Scott’s annoying friend. “That wasn’t you,” Derek repeats, catching Stiles’s gaze and holding it. "Don’t blame yourself."

The laugh Stiles chokes out sounds more like a sob. His hands come up, like he’s going to push Derek away. Instead they clench into the worn cotton of his Henley. Derek recognizes too well the scents of misery and shame seeping from Stiles’s pores. He acts on instinct, crushing Stiles to his chest. Shuddering, Stiles buries his wet face in Derek’s neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into Derek’s skin. “So sorry. For all of it.”

"I know." Swallowing hard, Derek presses his mouth to the top of Stiles's head, runs soothing hands up and down his knobby spine. "Believe me," he whispers, "I know."

He doesn’t mean to start anything when he moves his lips from Stiles’s hair to his forehead. But Stiles leans into the touch, hands slipping under Derek's shirt. Derek kisses his cheek, and Stiles turns his head, catches Derek’s mouth in his. From there it’s frantic, hands shoving fabric aside and working buttons open.

"We shouldn't do this," Derek groans, even as he’s lining their cocks up in his hand. They’re both wet, slick with pre-come.

Stiles shakes his head, gripping Derek’s shoulders like he’s afraid he’ll get away. "Yes, we should! Fuck, I need this, Derek! Need you!”

If Stiles needs to lose himself in sex, Derek reasons, at least this is with someone who cares about him. Derek makes it good, using Stiles’s scent, his hungry, muffled groans, to guide his strokes. Stiles clings to Derek when he comes, pressing wet kisses to the point of his jaw, his neck,his shoulder. Still shuddering, he pulls away, sinking to his knees before Derek.

“You don’t have to--”

“Let me!” Stiles says, guiding Derek’s cock into the wet heat of his mouth. As he suckles at the head, Stiles’s eyes flutter shut, face going calm, peaceful. He’s inexperienced, clumsy, but the sweet smell of contentment rising from his skin electrifies Derek. He’s grateful, suddenly, for his supernatural night vision. Stiles’s lips stretched around his cock are the best thing he’s ever seen in his life.

“Don’t stop,” he groans, hating how raw his voice sounds. Stiles makes a noise of agreement around him, the vibration going straight to Derek’s toes.

When Derek comes, Stiles shudders through it with him, though his dick lies spent against his jeans. His eyes are damp when he pulls away, lips swollen, glistening with come. He rests his forehead on Derek’s thigh.

For a long moment, neither speaks. The silent darkness feels comforting, thick like a blanket.

“Stay?” Derek offers at last.

Nodding, Stiles lets Derek help him to his feet.

> What hope we have lies there . . . Not in the light that blinds, but in the dark that nourishes . . . (Ursula K. LeGuin)


	16. Wk 6: Fandom Tropes - Derek/Stiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tropes - Amnesia, coffee house "AU"

At 27, Derek is older than most of the baristas at Holy Grounds, but he loves the ritual of pulling a shot, loves the rich smell of coffee, the sound of rain pouring down the picture windows. Besides, Peter never cares if Derek snatches a few moments during the quiet hours to work on his thesis. That’s what he’s doing when the door swings open with a jingle of bells and a scent as fresh and familiar as running through the Nature Preserve as a child, laughing with his sisters and cousins. Derek’s eyes flutter shut of their own volition. He breathes in deeply, trying to draw in as much of the scent as possible.

When he finally forces himself to look up and say, “What can I get for you?” Derek finds a college boy standing on the other side of the counter, staring like he’s seen a ghost.

“Derek?” he chokes.

“Have we met?” Derek asks. He doesn’t think so. He’d remember that scent, remember the scattering of moles by that expressive mouth.

“We thought you were dead!” the boy chokes. To Derek’s alarm, tears are rising rapidly in his warm brown eyes. The wolf in Derek wants to reach out to him, to touch his shoulder, ease the scent of misery rolling off him. The human makes him take a step back, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I’m sorry,” Derek says, “Who are you?”

The boy’s jaw drops open, anger and affront warring in his expression. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The boy steps right up to the counter, leaning over it to jab a finger into Derek’s chest. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but when I find out, I’m going to kick your werewolf ass!”

Derek grabs the boy’s wrist, even as he instinctively double-checks that nobody heard them. “I don’t know how you know that,” he growled, “but if you say another word . . .” he squeezes the fragile bones in his hand, hard enough to hurt.

The boy flinches, but Derek gets the feeling it’s not from his grip. “You really don’t remember me, do you?” the boy asks.

“No,” he says, feeling almost guilty for the droop in the boy’s shoulders. “But you know me?”

“Yes,” the boy says. He’s not lying.

Derek glances around the coffee shop -- quiet, but still too full for any conversation involving werewolves. “I get off at 10,” he says. “We’ll talk then.”

* * *

His name is Stiles. He’s from Beacon Hills.

“I can’t believe you recognized me!” Derek marvels. “I was only sixteen when I left!”

“Sixteen?” Stiles asks, a strangled note to his voice.

Derek smiles ruefully. “Most of my family died in a fire when I was just a kid. My uncle, Peter, adopted me and my sister. We moved to Seattle then.”

At Peter’s name, the boy’s scent goes sour. He glares down into the macchiato Derek made him, fingers tapping restlessly against the rim of the cup.

Derek catches the hand. “Why do you remember me?” he asks.

Fear and hesitation spark through Stiles’s scent. He licks his lips. “I had the biggest crush on you in Beacon Hills,” he admits. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth, either. Derek wants to press it, but Stiles’s scent is distracting him. The hand he’s captured has turned in his, twining their fingers together. Derek leans close, catches his lips in a kiss.

He’s expecting Stiles to kiss back. He’s not expecting him to throw himself into it, to clamber into Derek’s lap and run frantic hands up under his shirt. They fall back onto the sofa, shucking clothing aside.

“I missed you,” Stiles groans, when Derek takes him in hand. “I missed you so much!”

Afterwards, they lie together, Stiles draped over Derek, resting his head on his chest. Derek is playing with his fingers, humming quietly. He feels safe in Stiles’s company, in a way he’s rarely felt since the fire.

Stiles swallows, squeezes Derek’s hand. “If you’d lost a memory,” he said hesitantly. “Something important, would you want it back? Even if it hurt?”

Derek shrugs, drawing his nose through Stiles’s hair. “I guess.”

Stiles smiles shakily, lifts himself up onto one elbow. “Your uncle’s an Alpha?”

“How did you know that?” Derek asks, and Stiles touches a finger to his lips.

“He changed your memories, Derek,” he says.

Derek wants to protest, but Stiles’s heart is steady, his eyes deadly serious. “Tell me,” Derek says.

And Stiles does.


End file.
